Skip to main content

The Underpass

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #239, a weekly poetry & flash site. Come share!


The doves and mockingbirds knit the fog
into socks and coats for those who walk the bridge
over the ocean the land remembers
glittering in rainbows, refractions;
light bends infinity into all her bridges
under which we pass.

Welcome to second (third?) summer, much like the multiple meals of a wealthy hobbit, in which we have exceeded the pleasant sufficiency of warm weather and are filling in all the chilly corners. Is it time to convert all Christmas decorations to holiday at the beach? Sandmen and pelicans? Did I pick the wrong picture for this week's Muse? :) Hoping you're having a good week!

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Sherry Blue SkyDecember 10, 2022 at 12:18 PM

    I LOVE the doves and mockingbirds knitting the fog into socks and coats! So endearing!

    ReplyDelete
  2. robkistnerDecember 10, 2022 at 1:40 PM

    Love your vision here Chrissa — “the land remembers glittering in rainbows, refractions” this line caught me especially, very nice! 🙂✌🏼🕊❤️

    ReplyDelete
  3. HelenDecember 10, 2022 at 4:03 PM

    Definitely chose the right image! For me it reads like a lovely stream of consciousness.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Carrie BurttDecember 11, 2022 at 3:45 AM

    Every line is a jewel in this gorgeous poem Chrissa! Magical and lovely and your image choice was perfection! I think today it will get cold again for us in our neck of the woods. 😊

    ReplyDelete
  5. Gillena CoxDecember 11, 2022 at 7:38 AM

    "doves and mockingbirds knit the fog"
    Wow!!! Poetry at its best.
    Happy Sunday Chrissa. Thanks for dropping by my blog.

    Much💌love

    ReplyDelete
  6. AngelaDecember 11, 2022 at 8:54 AM

    Just magical <3

    ReplyDelete
  7. JimDecember 11, 2022 at 1:13 PM

    Nice thoughts penned. I like the reflections best although they are muffled by the fog. We have a lot of fog here along the Gulf Coast of Texas. So many that Princess Cruise Line pulled out of Houston and moved down to Galveston, also on the Gulf Coast but closer to the open sea.
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  8. Stacy M.S.December 12, 2022 at 12:29 PM

    The idea of the birds knitting...this is gorgeous and magical!

    ReplyDelete
  9. purplepeninportland.comDecember 17, 2022 at 5:31 PM

    Oh, those "doves and mockingbirds knitting the fog into socks"

    What a fabulous image I got from that, Chrissa!

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in...
15 comments
Read more

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...
14 comments
Read more

A Single (Terrible) Poem

 I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies.    This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem?  -- Chrissa
11 comments
Read more